


Neverlands

by Delwin



Series: ...and history books forgot about us (canonical AU's) [3]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10088198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/pseuds/Delwin
Summary: Five lost lives of Tom Paris...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sareki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sareki/gifts).



> Fair warning: here there be angst. And major character death. And that sort of thing.
> 
> Written for Sareki who was looking for either a Year of Hell or an original Endgame timeline story. I took "either/or" as "both" and then expanded somewhat from there…
> 
> Many, many thanks as always to Photogirl1890 for her tireless help and much needed encouragement.  
> And I still own none of this but was happy to once again pick up and play with some otherwise unwanted pieces.

i.

The first ghost arrives in his pre-dawn dreams, which, all things considered, might be the most likely setting for a ghost to make its appearance. Or her appearance in this case.

Tom awakens suddenly, bolting upright in a bed that is not his own and causing a groan of protest from the lumpish figure burrowed under the covers next to him. The lump resumes its slumber; Tom, knowing that any further sleep is unlikely and having inconveniently forgotten the name of the Chrysalian - or was it the Rigelian? - whose bed he's sharing, gathers his few belongings and slips out onto the still dark streets of Marseilles.

Why her face? Why that ghost?

Tom has no shortage of apparitions that regularly haunt his sleep. Enough alcohol will banish them for a night but it has to be the good stuff – the real stuff – not synthehol and not replicated. And that requires currency of some sort, even on Earth. Of that, Tom is in short supply.

But why Torres? Thanks to the sheer obnoxiousness of DS9's Ferengi bartender and the fracas that had ensued, Tom's ever-guilty conscience should still be clear with regards to the half-Klingon engineer and her Maquis shipmates. Granted not due to any virtue on his part.

"Do you think you started that brawl intentionally?" The Lumerian counselor back in Auckland: pretty, though perhaps a touch lacking in warmth. Tom had made his habitual pass at her when he had first entered the room; she hadn't so much as lifted an elegant eyebrow in acknowledgement before getting down to business.

"Intentionally? Why would I start a brawl that was going to get me thrown back in here intentionally?" He had shaken his head. "I was drunk. And stupid: pretty much what you'd expect from Thomas 'Fuck Up' Paris."

"Are you sure that's all it was?"

Tom had folded his arms across his chest and leaned back into the relatively comfortable chair that the rehabilitation system provided for such sessions. "What else could it possibly be?"

"You weren't, perhaps subconsciously, trying to avoid betraying your former shipmates?"

Tom had snorted. "Look, the Maquis hired me to fly their ship. Starfleet hired me to help track down the Maquis. I work for whoever is willing to pay the bar bill." He'd grinned humorously. "Starfleet's mistake was paying the bill upfront."

Marseilles is beginning to come alive around him as the blue-grey light of the pre-dawn hours gives way to the first glints of the rising sun. There's a stiff mistral breeze and Tom pulls his thin jacket more tightly around his shoulders as he quickens his pace to ward off the chill. A small flock of pigeons scatters in front of him as he passes the centuries-old opera house, heading in the direction of the old port.

He stops off at a replicator mart just off the harbor. It's empty, as it almost always is. In contrast, Tom can already hear the overlapping calls of the fishmongers selling their wares to a steady stream of buyers along the waterfront. This is France after all: the replicators are here pretty much for pharmaceuticals and toiletries.

A few minutes later with a replicated baguette and coffee that most in Marseilles would consider inconsumable in hand, Tom makes his way out to the port.

The sun has risen far enough to pleasantly counter the effects of the breeze once Tom moves beyond Marseilles's narrow and shadowed streets. He finds a sun-warmed bench and sits down to consume his inconsumables. The fish market is indeed bustling this morning; Tom briefly wonders if it's a holiday. He's long since lost track of which day of the week it is, not to mention whether any date that the rest of society deems significant might be upcoming.

He takes his time with his breakfast while watching the boats bob on the slight waves of the harbor, listening to the jangling of their moorings and the calls of the gulls. Tom Paris is never at peace, not anymore. But these early morning hours along the harbor are his closest approach to it.

He hears her laughter before her face flashes before him again, this time her hair damp and curling from the rain, a teasing grin playing across her lips.

_Fuck._

The sunlight has lost its warmth and Tom stands up to move on. He tosses the coffee cup and baguette wrapper into a harbor side recycler and readjusts his jacket before heading back onto the now busy streets of Marseilles.

.

The second ghost arrives with a small, flat parcel, neatly wrapped and hand addressed to Thomas Eugene Paris, care of _Chez Sandrine_.

Tom has made an art of predicting the unposted and irregular time that _Sandrine_ 's proprietress will choose to open her doors. Some combination of the direction of the wind, the angle of the sun and whether or not a certain Ktarian merchant is in town.

Sure enough he arrives at the establishment as Sandrine is walking back towards her bar, an archaic, iron-wrought key still in hand. She doesn't bother to turn at his entrance but does call back a friendly enough greeting in her native tongue.

"It's a little past morning now, actually," Tom counters, following her to the bar and leaning against it as Sandrine begins polishing the already gleaming tumblers and stemware. A daily ritual, like the key turning. Tom glances back at the fully restocked shelves of Ktarian merlots and seasonal beers behind the bar and raises a suggestive brow. "I trust your evening was pleasant then?"

Sandrine smiles back indulgently, taking in Tom's rumpled clothing and unshaven face. "Better than yours, I'd wager, Monsieur Thomas."

Tom shrugs. "As they say in America, _c'est la vie_." The proprietress snorts softly as she turns away, placing the glassware back in its place. "In need of an extra hand today, Sandrine?"

She turns back, now leaning against the bar across from him. "Why do you not simply sign on with the Federation bureau and get your credits in the proper way? Why come by to bother me, day after day?"

Tom leans in further. "Maybe I just like bothering you." He moves even closer, whispering the last into her ear: "Day after day."

Sandrine chuckles, swatting at him as she pulls back. She motions towards the alleyway door. "There are crates in the back that need to be unloaded." Tom nods and moves toward the door before Sandrine stops him, bending to retrieve a small parcel from beneath the bar. " _Attends un peu_ – I had forgotten. This arrived for you." She raises both eyebrows. "Am I now your postal courier, Monsieur Thomas?"

Tom frowns as he takes the package, continuing out to the back alley.

_Moira._

Even if he didn't recognize the handwriting, there's no one else it could be from.

He had known that it would be a risk using his real name when applying for housing in Marseilles proper. In the last two years, there had been a steady influx of colonists and other off-worlders pulling back to the stability of Earth and other core Federation worlds as tensions in the quadrant heighten. On-Earth housing is still guaranteed for all residents – for now – but Earth-born status pushes one to the top of the queue for the highly desired residences within the major cities.

Someone would need to be actively looking for him to find the blip created by the housing application. Tom had convinced himself that no one would still care enough to make the effort. He should have known better.

_You did know better._

Tom shrugs away the thought as he tears off the parcel's wrapping and throws it into the large recycler just outside Sandrine's alleyway door. He intends to do the same with the contents of the parcel but stops short when he sees what his sister has sent him.

Old-style photographs, four of them. Three of a smiling, chubby, blue-eyed infant and one with the same infant in the arms of his mother. Tom's sister and her newborn son. There's no note; just the pictures.

Tom leafs through the photos twice, pausing on the image of Moira. He moves to throw the small stack in the recycler with the parcel's wrapping and then hesitates. Finally, with something between reluctance and anger, he shoves the pictures into the inside pocket of his vest and makes a start on Sandrine's crates.

.

The third ghost is altogether too solid, hunched over Sandrine's pool table and blocking Tom's shot.

Gold over black (…shouldn't those uniforms be due for an update soon?) One pip. An ensign, though he carries himself with more assurance than most ensigns Tom has known. He's had some seasoning then.

Tom takes a generous sip of his whiskey, the spoils of his afternoon battle with the crates.

'Fleeters are a rare sight in _Chez Sandrine_ , despite the proximity of the training base. The regulars at the establishment are not the sort of company known to boost one's career prospects.

Tom's instincts suggest unequivocally that he should leave. If there's anything that he's learned in the last half-decade, it's that anyone or anything in a Starfleet uniform is bad news for Tom Paris.

With another sip of his whiskey, Tom strides over to the table.

He's already faced down two ghosts today; one more is hardly going to kill him.

.

.

.

ii.

His daughter wobbles into his arms.

A month. A month and the infant he'd delivered from her mother's birth sac with his own hands has pushed herself up onto her feet and staggered slowly but determinedly across the meter-wide gap between her parents.

And two months.

Two months since Kes's elogium, since the now or never moment that had pushed their nascent relationship to permanence.

Two months.

And six months. Six months since he'd thought his heart had died along with B'Elanna as hell broke loose on _Voyager_ 's bridge.

Six months. He still dreams about her, more often than not. Kes knows, has always known. Has somehow, in her kindness which has never been soft or weak, been able to accept that her husband loves two women and leads a second life in his dreams.

Though it feels at times as if this life is the dream, this life with a daughter who grows from newborn to toddler in the space of four short weeks.

His little mayfly.

_Don't think that._

He pulls her up off her feet as she squeals in delight. He wraps his arms around her still tiny frame, wishing he could hold her forever.

.

.

.

iii.

_Day 48_

Her shout pulls Tom out of his semi-slumber as he huddles against the mess hall bulkhead. He staggers to his feet, reaching for the tricorder at his waist before realizing that B'Elanna's eyes remain closed and that, despite her restless movements, she's still asleep.

A nightmare.

He sits down on the edge of the cot, stroking her hair with one hand while resting the other lightly on her shoulder. If she wakes suddenly and tries to sit up, it could further damage her only partially healed vertebra. "B'Elanna?" He keeps his voice soft.

She awakens with a start but his gentle restraint is enough to keep her still until her panicked eyes focus on him. "Tom?"

He smiles softly, releasing her shoulder and pulling the tricorder off his belt. "It's okay. You were having a nightmare." He does a quick sweep with the instrument: her bradykinin and prostaglandins levels are elevated. "Are you in pain?"

Her teeth catch at her bottom lip before she nods. Tom stills his hand on her hair for a moment before reaching down to his medic's kit lying beneath the cot. "You're due for another dose of terakine." Pulling out a preloaded hypospray, he checks the dosage before pressing it gently against B'Elanna's neck, releasing the meds. Within a few seconds, the tension around her eyes begins to abate. "Better?"

She nods. "Those meds work fast."

The corner of Tom's mouth quirks up as he re-packs the medkit and slides it back down to the floor. He does another sweep with the tricorder: her readings are moving down to normal. "They'll kick in more fully in a few minutes; probably put you back to sleep."

She frowns. Tom eyes her with concern and shifts a little closer. "Mind a little company until then?"

B'Elanna shakes her head in the negative. Tom reaches to take her hand in his. Her fingers are cold against his palm.

The mess hall is quiet around them. Gibson, Gennaro and Harper are the only other overnight patients in the makeshift sickbay and all are deeply asleep, Gibson and Harper aided by the sedatives that the EMH had prescribed. The emergency lighting casts a low, blue-tinted glow at the corners of the room.

"What was it about?"

"Hmm…?"

"Your nightmare. What was it about?"

She hesitates and he backpedals: "You don't need to tell me…"

"No." She blinks; the meds are already pulling her towards sleep. "It was Sveta, Roberto, Nelson…other Maquis." Tom's gut twists: B'Elanna, knowing some of the guilt Tom still carries, seldom mentions her former comrades to him. He strokes his thumb lightly against hers.

"What happened?"

B'Elanna shrugs, not meeting his eyes. "Nothing happened exactly. I found them. Dead – slaughtered. All gone. Except for me." Then she looks at him, making a poor attempt at a grin. "Pretty much my usual nightmare fare."

Usual nightmare fare?

 _Hell_ …

How had he not known about her dreams before? Had he slept through her awakening in panic? Though they've spent few enough full nights together…

Tom's mind feels sluggish, processing only slowly. His thumb continues its rhythmic movement against her hand. "Are there others? Other nightmares?" he finally asks.

She nods, her speech beginning to slur. "Sometimes. But it's always the same: everyone's gone. Dead or left."

"Who's everyone?"

Another shrug. "Chakotay. _Voyager_. My father. Everyone…"

"Me?"

"Sometimes."

The sedatives are doing their work and B'Elanna's words are calm. Feeling anything but calm himself, Tom tries to keep his tone light.

"Never."

"Never?"

He smiles down at her drowsy confusion. "Never," he repeats. "You can't get rid of me. I'm staying right here." And he grasps her hand more tightly for emphasis.

The corner of her mouth curls upward even as her eyelids flutter. " _Voyager_ would miss her pilot," she quips.

Tom chuckles. "Well I may need to give her some quick face time, but then I'll be right back in your hair." And he leans down to gently kiss her ridged brow. "I promise."

The drugs are in full effect now and she can no longer keep her eyes open. Tom sits with her quietly, still stroking her hand, watching her.

"Tom?" She's more asleep than awake.

"Hmmm?"

"What are your nightmares about?"

But her muscles relax as her breathing deepens leaving Tom alone with her question in the darkened mess hall.

.

_Day 109_

He should have started on hash marks the first day. Though, the walls of the Krenim cell seem pretty damn indelible given the lack of any effect from the innumerable times his feet, palms and fists have made contact with them.

How does one keep track of days in a prison with indelible walls? Maybe he should have started a poem – one word for each day. Count the words, count the days.

Prison poetry. Definitely seems like it should be a thing.

This time it's the floor that his open palm strikes against – still without effect – before Tom pushes himself to his feet, pacing the small, almost blackened confines of his cell.

Thirty days at the least, likely more than that. He runs his fingers through the growth of hair on his chin, estimating its length, comparing with dim memories of a failed six-week-long beard growing experiment while on summer leave from the Academy. (Blame a fad set by Commander Riker of the _Enterprise_ for that one…)

Day one had been spent repressing an attack of claustrophobia. Regaining consciousness alone, in darkness and in a space that he could easily cover with three strides had sent him spiraling into a panic. But hell if he had been about to lose himself while _Voyager_ was still out there.

Is she still out there?

Far more than the Krenim have done with their endless poking, prodding and enforced isolation, Tom has tortured himself running through every possible scenario for what might have happened to the ship, few of which end well. _Voyager_ had hardly been in shape to survive a casual cruise through open space, not to mention whatever the Krenim had decided to throw at her.

But if _Voyager_ were gone, why would the Krenim still be keeping him alive?

That second question is what gives Tom hope; what keeps him from succumbing to the ever-ready-to-rise phobia; what keeps him fighting intransigently against the demands of his captors and slamming various appendages into his cell's walls.

Because if _Voyager_ is still out there, Tom will get back to her: he'd made a promise.

And for once in this fucked up life of his, Tom Paris is going to live up to that promise.

.

_Day 257_

There are those who enjoy the sensation of one's atoms dematerializing into pure energy – rare cases of transporter addiction have even been noted. Tom is not one of those: stepping onto a transporter platform has always been accompanied by a spike in adrenaline and the first tickle of dematerialization inevitably causes his skin to break into nervous goosebumps.

So when the Krenim transporter beam is initiated, Tom's nervous system reacts instantly - and he has the split second needed to finish relaying the coordinates of the temporal core to Captain Janeway before he watches his fingers dissolve _._

Which is good because when he rematerializes, it's not on _Voyager_.

Tom's instinctive defensive posture relaxes as he focuses on a familiar figure leaning over a too-squat station in front of him. "Seven?"

The former Borg gives him what might almost be a small smile. "It is agreeable to see you, Lieutenant."

Tom crosses to her as, above and to his right, he hears Tuvok's voice reporting – to _Voyager_? – that Tom and Chakotay are aboard.

_Aboard where?_

Tom swings around and finds himself staring at a massive viewscreen, where the Krenim time ship, _Voyager_ and two alien vessels are prominently displayed. He hears Captain Janeway's voice, responding to Tuvok, letting the Vulcan know that the coordinates Tom had sent had arrived.

 _Janeway is still on_ Voyager _then. Who else?_

"Seven, where are we?"

"We are on the bridge of the Mawasi lead ship."

Tom nods, now scanning the bridge. Three pairs of diminutive, blue scaled aliens stand at stations around the room, each pair seemingly working in close tandem. Tuvok stands at a raised station to the rear of the bridge – something Tom can't quite name seems odd about the Vulcan's posture and gaze. Also on the raised station stands a bewildered looking Chakotay.

Tom suspects his own expression might well match the Commander's. He shakes his head and, focusing on the present and the imminent danger that the Krenim ship poses, turns back to Seven: "Can I help?"

She nods. "I am attempting to recalibrate the emitter modulation of the forward shielding but the Mawasi systems are designed for sub-units of two individuals."

Tom blinks, translating the Borg-speak in his head. "You're saying you could use a hand?"

One implant embellished eyebrow lifts. "Indeed. If you determine the waveform frequency, I will alter the modulator output accordingly."

Tom nods and moves around the console.

"Where is the…"

A blinding streak of purple energy shoots past the viewscreen a split second before the Mawasi vessel careens from its impact.

Seven and Tom are both thrown hard onto the deck. Dazed, Tom looks back up at the viewscreen to see _Voyager_ close by – too close. With fascinated horror, Tom watches the small distance between the two ships close before instinctively covering his head at the inevitable moment of collision.

Metal screeches against metal; the deck and walls tilt at impossible angles; blackness is shot through with showers of sparks as panels explode.

Whether it's seconds or hours later that he comes back to consciousness, Tom doesn't know. Seven is lying on the deck beside him, her neck twisted at a sickening angle. Again from above, he hears Tuvok's voice, asking for a status report. Tom opens his mouth to answer but no sound emerges.

Doesn't matter: the question isn't meant for him.

: _This is the Nihydron vessel. Our weapons and propulsion have been completely disabled. We're not going to be a lot of help to you, Commander_ :

B'Elanna.

On the edges of his consciousness, Tom hears first Tuvok relaying the fleet's condition to _Voyager_ and then the Captain announcing her final, madcap plan.

Tom barely cares.

Slowly, forearm over forearm, Tom pulls his way across the floor to Seven's prone form.

 _Voyager_ crashes into the time ship. Some corner of Tom's mind takes note.

Finally reaching Seven's side, Tom mumbles an unheard apology as he pulls the communicator off her chest.

On the viewscreen, the Krenim vessel begins to glow.

Tom taps the communicator. "Paris to Torres."

The pause lasts an eternity. In front of him, the time ship appears to be folding in on itself.

: _Tom?_ :

"B'Elanna…"

: _Tom…_ :

Tom's eyes widen as he watches the temporal incursion wave build.

"B'Elanna. I'm here."

And then there's only light.

.

.

.  
iv.

The brightness is overwhelming, blinding.

Tom keeps his eyes on the helm control and his attention on his battle against the laws of physics to land his ship.

He knows he's going to lose.

At the last moment he looks up to take in the frozen surface of the planet that will be _Voyager_ 's grave.

His final thought before impact is that B'Elanna hates the cold.

.

.

.  
v.

"I still don't understand why you like this movie so much." B'Elanna shifts against him, as if hoping a change in position might create an altered perspective on their evening's entertainment. "It's absurdly saccharine. Can't we watch one of your monster horror shows - or sports?"

Tom snorts. "Now that's true desperation." He gestures to the screen with one arm while tightening the other around his wife encouragingly. " _It's a Wonderful Life_ is a holiday tradition - and it hasn't killed you yet."

"This might just be the year," B'Elanna grumbles, but she doesn't show signs of moving so Tom privately declares victory. He turns his attention back to the opening conversation between the nebula-like incarnations of angel-second-class Clarence and Joseph, ignoring a derisive snort from beside him. Just as the film begins to move into scenes of George Bailey's early life, a small cry comes from the bedroom.

"I'll get her," Tom offers, reaching for the remote on the coffee table.

But B'Elanna is already up and moving. "I've got it." She glances back at him with a smirk. "Don't worry about pausing the movie while I'm gone."

Chuckling, Tom bypasses the remote for the popcorn bowl and munches away happily until his wife returns with a blurry eyed ten-month-old on one hip, the baby's reddened cheek pressed sleepily against B'Elanna's chest.

"Well hello there, little one." Tom reaches out to tickle a pajama clad foot. "Did you need _SoSnI'_ to come in on a rescue mission?"

His granddaughter gives him a shy smile before snuggling more closely against B'Elanna who settles back down onto the couch. "Would you mind grabbing her a bottle?"

Tom nods and gets up to head into the kitchen of their small apartment. As he reaches the replicator, he calls back, "You never used to let me do this with Miral, you know: let her get up after bedtime."

"I was Miral's mother; I'm Wen's grandmother," B'Elanna responds from the living room. Tom grabs the replicated bottle and heads back to the sofa. B'Elanna is waiting for him, smiling unrepentantly down at the baby snuggled against her. "Besides, we didn't exactly have the time for Miral to be up at night. We were busy trying to hold _Voyager_ together with 'chewing gum and shoestrings', as you so fondly described it. Now, however, we do," she concludes matter-of-factly, giving her granddaughter a satisfied kiss on her ridged forehead.

"That we do," Tom agrees, handing B'Elanna the bottle and sitting back down on the sofa. He watches Wen play with the bottle, sucking more for comfort than for actual nourishment. Her eyelids grow heavy as her body molds itself even more pliably against B'Elanna's torso.

Tom steals a glance up at his wife's expression. No, they had not had enough time for this with Miral.

He reaches out to retrieve the popcorn, noticing that on the television screen, George has already managed to save his brother's life and is now working on extracting old Mr. Gower from possible disgrace.

"By the way, did you hear back from Harry about meeting up on Casperia next month? Miral wanted to know if we had finalized our plans."

Caught off-guard, Tom mentally stumbles about for an acceptable answer.

"Tom?"

Tom schools his expression before turning to meet B'Elanna's questioning look.

"Is everything all right with Harry?"

"Yeah, sure," Tom lies. "But his mom's been sick and he's not sure if he'll be able to get away. Probably better to plan for him not to be there."

B'Elanna lets her gaze linger. She doesn't believe him, not entirely. But after three decades, they both still know when to give the other space. "Sure." She nods, adjusting the now sleeping baby more comfortably against her. "Let me know if he changes his mind, okay?"

Tom smiles an unspoken thank you for her patience - and trust. Careful not to jostle Wen, she shifts back to his side and he returns his arm to its place around her as she drops her head against his shoulder.

By the time George and Mary are waylaid from their honeymoon, Tom is the only occupant in the room still awake.

Checking that B'Elanna is indeed asleep, Tom reaches for a PADD left sitting on the arm of the sofa. He opens and tracks back through his recent conversation with Harry; reads his friend's initial enthusiasm for the idea of meeting up after having not seen Tom and B'Elanna for nearly a year; a couple of back and forths on possible dates; then the sudden reversal of position and proffered excuses after Tom's mention that Miral and her family would be joining them as well.

Tom rereads through the strained language of the final message: Harry had always been a terrible liar.

It had been five years since the then-Captain Kim had been summoned back to Starfleet Headquarters to testify at what was officially being called an investigation into the disappearance of Admiral Janeway - an investigation that was notably closed door. B'Elanna and Miral had, by that point, already been called in, as had the Doc. And Reg.

Tom had paced the corridors through each of their testimonies, mentally putting pieces together and then trying to rearrange them to form some other - any other - picture. When Harry finally came out from the inquiry, Tom had met his friend mid-stride.

"It's over."

Tom halted. "What's over?"

Harry stopped a pace ahead and turned. "The investigation. I told Starfleet what they needed to know – and accepted all blame for what occurred." Only then had Tom noticed the bare collar of his friend's dress uniform.

"You resigned your commission?"

Harry nodded, his expression emotionless. "B'Elanna and Miral should be safe – the Doctor as well. Even Reg. Starfleet wants to wash its hands of the whole thing."

With that, Harry had turned back around and continued walking. After a beat, Tom had sprung forward to catch up, stopping the other man with a hand on his shoulder. "Harry…"

"Tom, I'd really like to go home now."

"She went back, didn't she?"

"Tom…"

"Kathryn went back." The last piece had fallen into place and Tom had been able to pretend no longer. "And you let her."

When Harry turned to walk away again, Tom had not followed.

.

Tom looks back down at the PADD in his hands. Starfleet's official finding had been that Admiral Janeway had been killed in an unexplained shuttlecraft accident. The less official consensus was that, if her craft hadn't been destroyed, she had otherwise failed in her attempt to subvert the timeline.

Tom knows better – knows Kathryn Janeway better. She would not have failed, not with _Voyager_ 's future in her hands. Somewhere, in some universe, Admiral Janeway had brought her ship home.

Swallowing back a familiar wave of nausea at the thought, Tom turns from the PADD to the woman and child sleeping next to him, his eyes tracing the nearly identical ridges marking each of their brows. Returning the PADD to the arm of the sofa, he reaches over and gently strokes Wen's soft, dark curls.

"Hmmm?" B'Elanna's eyelids flutter open. "Did the angel get its wings yet?"

Tom smiles. "Not yet – but you almost missed it."

"I'm not sure how I would have survived the disappointment."

"One does wonder."

She elbows him in mock indignation before reaching for some popcorn.

"B'Elanna?"

"Hmmm?"

"Would you change anything?"

She chews and swallows. "About the movie? Lots."

"About life. Our life – our history."

He's watching her and thus sees the slight motion of her arm tightening reflexively around the child in her lap. "No. No, I wouldn't." She turns her eyes toward him. "Would you? Change anything?"

He shakes his head slowly. "No. Not a thing."

Holding her eyes, Tom bends his head to touch his lips to hers. B'Elanna's response pulls the light kiss deeper until Wen stirs in protest. Breaking apart, Tom watches his wife shush and pat their granddaughter back to sleep. Then, they settle back into the sofa together to see if, once again, Clarence will get his wings.


End file.
